“Mom, I lost my job.  Dad wanted me to call and tell you.”

Like so many other crises during the years of my son’s active addiction, this one arrived with terrible timing.  Half-the country away, I was about to leave my hotel room to proctor a professional exam.

A two-hour time difference meant it was late morning at home.  Now here was this sad young man confessing his misery while my husband listened.  They both sounded breathy.

How fast can I grab the next plane home, I thought.

“O Jacob, why?” was all I croaked instead.

It didn’t really matter why.  Some misunderstanding.  Something he did or didn’t do.   My shoulders sagged.  Here was another loss.

I didn’t get it then; I do now.  Addiction is a disease of loss.  Little by little, everything gets taken away – from your loved one and from you. Good grades, good friends, family, a future.

Jacob loved his after-school job.  Being a barista gave him confidence.  He remembered names and faces and how to swirl those little curly cues atop each steaming cup.

But addiction had now robbed him of this, too.

Heartsick for him, I had to end the call.  I had made promises. People were waiting for me outside my door.

With a final glance at the mirror – was my lipstick smeared?  did the pearls look right? –  I was out the door.

For that morning, I had to let Jacob go.

It was a moment I had to accept and a lesson we both had to learn. There would be many more moments of letting go – and many more losses – before we each found recovery

And today, Jacob has people waiting outside his door, too.